Holding on to what I haven’t got.

As I write this, the surroundings are getting more familiar. The sights and sounds of the things around me are starting to become second nature in my mind's eye. (Though, I must say that I wouldn't mind the damn birds disappear and never return. Preferably in the form of crispy chicken.) I am getting used to the things here; escalators escalating people at a pace that would make people back home tumble as they get off, buses braking with so much force that not holding to anything would lead to face on floor, putting tissue paper on to tables and then coming back to the table with the tissue and a place to sit and eat.

But I yearn for the comforts of home. My real home.

It's been a month since I left home to come to Singapore. I left because I wanted to take total control of my life and career. In terms of career, if I was still in Malaysia, I have enough experience to go quite far but I'd still be fighting to get the best parts of the job. Definitely not a good thing since I want to settle down in the next 3 years or so. So, I threw my resume to only one place and that one place grabbed it and hired me.

Sounds good, right? I thought so, too. But that was when my family and girl were still around. Nothing could've warned me of the roller-coaster of emotions I was going to endure. I had no clue whatsoever that the homesickness was going to be so profound. I never could have imagined that I would just shed tears whilst walking down to the bus stop to get to work because of the sorrow and heartache I was feeling. Even after a month, I still feel a void.

The day me and my family parted, I embraced them, said I love them very much and hopped into the train. The journey back to the apartment was the most emotionally numbing experience since the day my dad passed away. As each station whizzed by me, an abyss in my heart and soul came to be. I cried every time I saw them on Skype. In a strange twist of fate, I have come to love my family even more than I ever imagined. I am saving all my leaves so that I can come home and spend as much time with them as possible. Heck, I've bookmarked all the airlines and bus companies websites so that I can get a ticket and head home for the weekend.

The plan was for me and my girl to come here, to start anew and establish ourselves. Sadly, she's not here. Yet. And that pains me greatly. With family, you know you will have to leave them eventually and that wherever they are that's home. Being apart with my RM kills me. We have to keep reminding ourselves that this is temporary, that we will be together and the pain would be a distant memory. But it is the journey getting there that greatly hurts the soul. We are not giving up on her coming here, till then, we will have to travel back and forth every month otherwise the heart will suffer. It drains the bank account but it's something that needs to be done.

They say time will heal all wounds. I should know, I've used that numerous times. As corny as this may sound, love is keeping me sane.

If only love could pay some of the bills as well.

This is Chris, signing off.

P.S. Also, I seem to keep abreast with Malaysian news more than I did. Curious, no?

All good things must come to an end...

...or does it have to be?

Life is short. We make choices every day that defines the present and shapes the future. The past? The past is like a bookmark that you can go back to, review what happened, and learn from it.

Never stop experiencing life because life is experiencing. 

This is Chris, signing off.

P.S. Judgement day was yesterday. Yeah, nothing happened. Pfft.

Sometimes, you've got to believe.

Last week was, man, a week to remember.

What a traumatising week.

Training had been so-so. What I had intended to do ended up being half-baked. Strangely enough, it was doing an unplanned training for biceps that gave me the boost and pump I had been chasing. Oh, well. Shit happens.

But that was only the beginning.

Running at full tilt down the busy streets in the Golden Triangle of Kuala Lumpur must've been a sight to behold. I reckon you'd do the same if you've realised that your wallet is missing. Tearing through the Suria KLCC mall was no fun. It was crowded and people had seemed to contrive in a highly secretive and tacit way to block my way at every turn I took. My family was with me and I told them what happened and they helped by enquiring with the mall's security for help.

My mind was racing through thoughts of my IC is going to be used in drug-related crime, I'd have to cancel all my cards and worst still was having to buy a new wallet as the wallet I had lost was pretty darn nice. While the family checked with security I ran back to the gym as there was the last place I had seen my wallet. But, I knew it wasn't there because I remember distinctively I took it out to keep back the gym card. Yet, I still ran as fast as I could, hoping for a miracle.

You know how things happen for a reason? Well, stopping to catch my breath, I was approached by this gangly Indian fellow. Of course, I became wary as I was in an area (I took the shortcuts I knew which meant I went through secluded areas) where thievery had been reported. Panting, short of breath I looked at him, thinking he was lost or asking for the time. It was neither.

Indian Fellow: Sir, you are _____
Me: What??! (I was preparing to run away)
Indian Fellow: Sir, you have a very lucky face and _____
Me: (Off sprinting) What the fuck! Fuck you, man!

Traffic was relatively well-behaved so it was all right for me to criss-cross in between cars. After running for what seemed like for eternity, with lactic acid building up and muscles aching after punishing my body earlier, I felt my mobile phone ringing. I looked up to the sky, yelled silently, and answered.

If the relief emanated from me was tangible it would have been the size of a (mini) bus. The call was from the bank, informing me that the mall security had my wallet and they were asking me if I wanted to block it, just in case. From there, I called my family about it and told them I'd see them soon. Walking back to the mall, I was in a stupor. A mixture of alleviation and anger simmered in me, how on earth could I have been so careless. Crossing the roads, with beads of sweat trickling down my face, making my way turtle-like as my legs had turned to mush, I was hit a realization. I literally stopped and stood still for a while. My mind played back everything and came to the part where I encountered the Indian fellow.

What did he mean when he said those things? How could he have known I was in dire straits? Was he the kind soul that found the wallet and returned everything? I immediately dismissed him as some good-for-nothing vagabond for proclaiming me as lucky as, at that time, had lost my identity. With even more langurous movements from my legs, I willed myself to walk quickly and reclaim what was lost.

Things always happen for a reason. Sometimes you don't realise it at first but when you do, it'll strike home. Whether or not you believe in miracles or the equivalent it's entirely up to you.

As for me, on that day, I believed.

This is Chris, signing off.

P.S. To the person who found it and did what you did, you have my eternal gratitude.

White supremacy does exist.

People either look at me like I am a leper or I have unsightly boils all over my body when I order food. Even the auntie at the mixed rice shop gets unhappy when I ask for less rice as though I have committed an unpardonable sin. But nothing beats the look of utter contempt I get when ordering black coffee from you know where. Conversely, when a wizened old man with a belly the size of Singapore comes in his short shorts and knee-high white socks questions what's in an ice-blended banana chocolate drink the same server will instantly stand upright and flash a smile worthy of being in a cheap Kodak pictorial for midgets.

Yes, I know I have spoken of the above in the past but I am revisiting this with a wider spectrum. Recently, after being acquired by hillbillies with better suits, the company I am in now has seen it fit that we should abandon our comfortable ways and embrace Americana. In an oily, greasy, cholesterol-packed way typical of their jumbo burgers, naturally. You see, partner (said in an accent that would make Jeff Bridges' character in True Grit nod in respect), the way has been set and the way shall be met. I don't know whether it was a lackadaisical almost bordering on whimsical err of character on some boss's part or the deadlines to accomplish certain tasks were given at such notice it threw everyone out of balance. Whatever the reasons are, the ball to get things rolling has started rolling, all right, but it's rolling at a pace that is flipping the panic buttons of some people with the Eject button being last resort lest they be crushed under the weight of (unjust) expectation.  

Asians have always been subservient to the wishes of the Whites, not West. People mistake the West as being the all-conquering but it is the Whites that still hold the trump card even when they don't know they have the trump card. You see, we Asians have been pandering and wanting to be like the Westerners for so long that everyone has become inured, numb from all the kowtowing and ball-licking of our forefathers that it's business as usual for the Asians to slog the night away trying to solve an issue. You want to go home at 5:30PM? Sure, go right ahead. But don't forget to look down and have tunnel vision because the stares of incredulity of going home on the dot will be thrown at you like daggers in the night. But, it it's in the UK or US, pray, tell me why we're still here? To the pub we go, amigos!

However, not all is gloomy. After decades of being mocked at for being dog-eating, infatuated with concubines and guilty of promoting rice bowls as apparatuses for haircuts China is now turning the tables on the Whites. Now it seems the Whites are very keen on expanding their businesses into the former Communist-loving country of a gazillion chicken feet dishes. India doesn't count because Indians are still universally looked down upon.

We have to be realistic, of course. The time of White supremacy is slowly coming to an end. A balance of power will emerge and things will be for the better. I am confident of it. Change won't come overnight. I might be able to see its birth but I doubt I'll see it growing up.

This is Chris, signing off. 

P.S. For all of us who tirelessly make the lives of Whites easier, I raise my glass of cold water to you and salute. You deserve it.

Death Penalty - It's the right thing to use.

I am, by all accounts, a misanthrope.

Going to work at 0600, I curse at all the silly drivers. I get into the train I curse at all the idiots who make a mad dash thinking their little spring will propel them into the coach but instead end up getting crush in between the doors.Whenever I see idiocy I call it out. People would say, why do you care? The truth is:

I don't.

So why do I still make a fuss? It's something inbred in me. Can't change, but I want to. Sometimes I wish physical pain be inflicted on the imbeciles who cross my path. Is it a good trait? Of course not. However, as part of an ongoing mission to be a better human being I now count to 1 (tried going up to 3 but I lost patience), take a deep breath and sigh. Walking away is the prefered choice these days. I am giving my all to be a better person, hoping to eradicate the bad attributes that attached themselves onto my psyche. But there's one that will probably stay with me infinitely.

I support the death penalty.

Raping of minors/elderly. Mass murder. These two, two me, are the unpardonable sins of humankind. What reason could the perpetrators give that would exonerate them? None. Why should these monsters be put in a cell, wasting taxpayer's money and space, when a needle will settle the score? Killing is wrong according to this here site. They have some salient points but they're all applicable to cases where there's a lot of circumstantial evidence and where the benefit of doubt can cloud judgement. I am for the death penalty for cases where there is 100% certainty he/she committed the atrocity.

The punishment should fit the crime, so goes the adage. I wholeheartedly concur.

This is Chris, signing off.

P.S. Further to the post above, I believe you know what I would do to the assailant.

Honestly? Don't be too honest.

I won't lie to you. I'm a really nice person once you get to know me.

All right, all right, another lie but a soft one.

I'm not a totally honest person. There have been times when my frankness in some situations have let me down, I admit. I can be brutally honest when it comes to criticising certain things, people's way of going about their business, people's parking skills ("WTF! Argh! C'mon, asshole, I need to pee!), people's way of doing their work ("WTF! I told him to stop the system not kill it!").

At work, it's better to be upfront right from the get-go when you've erred so that it can be rectified soon without it descending into a potential bureaucratic nightmare more so if you've got a lead that kowtows at every damn whimsical request. But when the matter is close to heart they are tougher because it involves emotions that if you were to let it loose in the boardroom might cost you that pair of Bally shoes you've been eyeing.

It kills me every bloody time someone says they are the most honest person yet when honesty comes by their way they'll get into defensive mode and start the pointing accusatory finger you of being unfair, like you've stolen their teddybear away, threatening to disembowel it of its cotton insides. This are insecure individuals that masquerade behind their persona of no-nonsense when their sense if full of non. Yes, if you can decipher what I've just said then you are definitely brighter than me.

I appreciate honesty, I really do. It's good to know your mistakes or how you've been to others as it will improve relations and makes one a better person. But if the honest remark is borne out of something you have a personal vendetta against and you tell me you don't like it? Shove it. Shove it where the sun doesn't shine and if still does it, shove it some more. There comes a time when shutting your mouth is the best possible thing you could do.

Sometimes lying is the best form of honesty.

P.S. It'd be darn great if you could read people's faces and their body language just like how Tim Roth does it in Lie to Me. It sure is a useful talent when playing poker, that's for sure. Po-po-po-ker face, anyone?

P.P.S Upon completion of this post I realised that this can be related to Wikileaks. The same as above applies. It's just better to not know.

What goes fast, faster and FASTER?

The day was tiring. And I didn't even do anything. Funny, eh? You're more tired doing nothing. I guess that's what happens when you're bored and lazy at work. My mind was a blur of thoughts during the journey home. Where am I heading to in my career? Things have slowed considerably the last few months. I no longer look forward to going to work. But that's another story altogether. I just wanted to get home, eat my mom's food and sleep.

I start the car as usual, came out of the parking bay, and with rapt attention maneuver the car through the haphazardly parked cars. There's a hill that's on the way home so I press on the accelerator harder but the response was about as exciting as a tepid jolt from an electric eel. Homeward bound, I thought of nothing else. The car moved slowly up the hill. Usual stuff since it came back from the nearby mechanic's some time ago. Once we cleared the apex of the hill, I took my foot off the accelerator, as I usually do when descending this hill. A weird feeling came to me, this is really odd, my foot's off the accelerator but is the car, what in the world?, accelerating?

What followed next was probably the most surreal driving experience as the car was speeding up on the highway. I did my best to keep things under control, breaking now and then to slow down the car (it's an automatic), and telling my sisters that everything's under control. I've always said that there's no point in having panicky people so it was quite a challenge to keep the car from not hitting the front car whilst telling them it's just a minor problem. For 8 minutes I tried to find a way to stop the car in the safest way possible. As we approached our neighbouring housing area I quickly made the decision to stop the car at the side of the road. Relief came all over me. Danger had been averted. Though, it could have been so much different if it weren't for the calmness of everyone.

The car's all right now, we had it repaired the next day. It wasn't a near-death type of experience (it nearly became a inside a ditch type of experience) but it could have easily been if it weren't for the subconscious mind. I thought of a lot things; keeping the car steady, the safety of my sisters, other motorists, our car, my mom, my RM, my life, the car's repair bill, it all came to me in one go. The mind is truly capable of a lot of things. I'm glad it thought of the right things at the right time.

This is Chris, signing off. 

P.S. In other, happier news, Liverpool beat Chelsea!

Life, as we know it.

I reckon Katherine Heigl should really play other types of roles other than being the atypical ditzy blonde who just wants to be loved.

It was fun the first time around. Now, not so. Why? Because this is the 53rd time. Find another role already.

Her latest cinematic jaunt, Life As We Know It, sees her playing a hot blonde who can't seem to get a decent date who along with Josh Duhamel have been entrusted with taking care of their best pals' daughter after they perish in a fatal accident. Their first reaction was to offload the child to a relative which was a pointless exercise since the parents were the only decent human beings in the family. The relatives? Losers. Heigl and Duhamel now have to set aside their mutual dislike for each other for the sake of the little cretin. In due time, they fall for each other, yet, smother their feelings. For the baby's sake, of course. Then by the 100th minute, they admit to each other and voila!

Instant family created.

If only life was that easy. What struck me about this movie was that the baby was not the central figure, it was the couple's bumbling attempt at raising the girl and eventually falling in love. Sure, they did things for the girl but she was made to be an accessory rather than being the driving factor in the grand scheme of things. But, then again, this is popcorn fare, not an indie drama that would've probably left me in tears. 

Contrary to popular belief, I love children. Abhorrence is reserved for those I find vexatious or resemble little trolls. It made me think of the day I become a parent and nominating my closest, most trustworthy pal to be the godfather of my child. (Man, he's going to flip when he finds out.) As for me, if I'm made godfather, I'd be honoured, too. In fact, I can imagine these things:

1. Shock. Yes, I'd be shocked and speechless. 
2. Disbelief. Me? ME?
3. Fear. Will I be a great godfather? Oh, shit, I hope I don't drop the baby.
4. Like. Will I even like the baby? What happens if it looks like a troll? (No disrespect to the parents but some children have turned out looking...different.)

But the movie raises one important question: raising a child is one thing, but someone else's? Your best pal's one and only child? In the movie, the two protagonists take little Sophie under their care because they are indebted to parents because the parents helped them. Sounds like repaying a favour, doesn't it? In all honesty, I don't know what I would do if I were in that situation. My concern is how am I going to love a child that's not mine. For the life of me, I don't see how I ever could.

Life, as we know it, is never easy.

This is Chris, signing off.

P.S. It was an all right. Red was all right as well. Helen Mirren with a giant machinegun is a sight to behold, indeed.

Daddy, where did I come from? Ebay.

What will you tell your children when they want to know, you know, where or how they were manufactured*? Do you answer them truthfully ("well, it was on a rather hot night, so...") or do you look at them sternly (to cover up your inability to explain) and tell them it's bed time? Or if you're balls are in a knot, go ask mommy. 

Sex has never been talked about so freely than ever before these days. TV shows in the past would just insinuate sex. There'll be lots of raised eyebrows, maybe a chorus or a simple bridge of public outcry. But now things are more liberal, some shows are full-blown (I am going to pun when I don't intend to pun) to the point of showing nearly everything. Edgy programming? A sign of the times? Or a ploy to draw in the ratings? Whatever it is, it's making sex seem as ordinary as Manchester United drawing games when they should've won easily. Don't get me wrong, it's still taboo but no one shields their eyes away whenever there's a kissing scene. In fact, censorship of kissing scenes is viewed as archaic, such scenes snipped by old men who pop Viagra every so often for, you know, health.

Growing up, I discovered marriage, babies and sex all by myself. All of that came from, ironically, from watching TV and movies. It never shocked me that I didn't come via a packaged deal carried by near extinct storks. When I found out that babies came as a result of some ahem action it just settled in me. Many of my peers went through the same, I'm sure of it. I guess my time didn't necessitate the talk because we were allowed to grow up and find things out ourselves. It also helped that information wasn't exactly readily available as certain things required the usage of a library or the legendary media format, VHS. But things have changed. A whole friggin' lot more. It surprises me that my little cousins know so many things including them topics but are nonchalant about it, almost not caring about it, preferring to blast aliens on the PS3. Good for me, I don't want to explain the meaning of holes and prevention to them when I'm buying them ice cream.

Sex education, to me, should be done by the parents because our tutors will deliver the subject in a robotic manner, failing to understand that it should be dealt with, pardon the pun, by injecting life, to proceedings. At what age is it appropriate? There is no such thing. There's only ever an appropriate time. When your child exudes intelligence then there's your cue. Just don't do it before an episode of Desperate Housewives. Also, children tend to believe what the tutors tell them and when you try to explain things they'll snort, that's not what Mr. Contraceptive said. What tutors should do is to compliment proceedings by further explaining it in a more scientific way. Leave the human aspects (read: horny tendencies) to the parents. It's also a good tool to freak out the children and stop them, for the time being, of delving head on into, you know, stuff.

Sex education doesn't have to be dirty. I think it's very important that parents speak to their children and be open about it (not spread eagle, no). A child's curiosity knows no bounds. So don't be surprised or feign shock when it happens because what are you, stupid? You and the missus did do some pretty hot stuff on a rather hot night.  

Right?

This is Chris, signing off.

* - This the iPod generation, you think they will know words like conceived?

P.S. If you're wondering what I would do? I'll make some tea, get the children all comfy and tucked, then tell them what I found out when I was their age. "You see, there are birds and there are bees..."

You've got the bag. But you've not got the class.

The woman with the big, bright red Louis Vuitton bag was looking at a book. A book for children. About snakes. Its cover was that of a cartoon snake that resembled the snake from the Jungle Book. Why would she pick that book out of a thousand others remains a mystery. Her child took one look and ran away.

Then she yelled in Mandarin. It voice was piercing, like two cats quarreling at night over who gets the little dead rat. Her child came towards her, yelled back, mom grabbed his arm, more yelling and off they went. They continued to talk at the top of their lungs. My inability to understand Mandarin came in handy after all. But the annoying decibels coming out of their mouths was grating all the same.

The sudden increase in the middle class has given rise of the wannabes from every imaginable nook and cranny, specifically the Chinese race. It is used to be that the Chinese would adopt English names, mispronounce it and look all smarmy about it. Then it morphed to creating names by combining existing names or changing the spelling of it. Still mispronouncing it, though. Then, as luxury brands started asserting themselves in the market, the Chinese took to them like vultures to a dead horse.

So take those two things and you have the new breed of Chinesedom: Chinese-er. Yes, I made that up. Imagine, if you will, a Chinese person who is more Chinese than ever. It's funny that as the world is becoming more accessible the Chinese as a whole are regressing. Yes, they embrace Western culture with open arms that haven't been shaved in ages yet they have not a clue to differentiating the two. They take what they see, if attractive, keep, throw the rest. It is precisely this reckless abandonment of the senses that bewilders me.

The thinking hasn't matured much, they equate luxury as the benchmark they have to live up to. It would be a travesty if they didn't keep up with the Chans. Immature thoughts of beauty still taints their minds, big eyes and pasty-white skin is beautiful. If a girl is not stick thin, then they're fat (chubby doesn't exist in their dictionary). Males have to have their hairs in asymmetrical styles are the norm these days. Of course, looking like your pet schnauzer makes the bond between man and pest stronger, right? 

Chinese males are increasingly becoming less male and resembling their sisters. If they had any. Shudder. This androgyny is seriously starting to alarm me. Where have the real men gone to? These girly boys run on the treadmill for 20 minutes at a speed my grandma walks and they're panting for breath. Skinny jeans can be found in the drawers next to their slim fit singlets. It seems that having legs where they appear to be like chopsticks are a-okay. I used to be wary of shaking a girl's hand because my grip is firm but these pansies are worse, like flaccid carrots. Whatever happened to the likes of Chow Yuen Fatt? He was cool as can be. Now, now we have girls like Jay Chou as their inspiration.

The style here is heavily borrowed from the Taiwanese, which they borrow heavily from the Japanese whom we all know borrow massively from the West. So what we have is a style that is bastardised to high heaven. There is no identity specific to them. What they see on TV is bible to them. Music videos, or as they're called MTVs by these troglodytes, sends them into a fit, wanting to copy the style right away. I go back to the woman and her Louis Vuitton bag; it doesn't immediately make you classy, it makes you oblivious. It further proves the fact that people are sheep, powerless slaves to what the media glorifies.

Do the clothes maketh the person? Or does the person maketh the clothes?

Try telling that to the woman. I wonder what she will yell if the book was on schnauzers.

This is Chris, signing off. 

P.S. This angry post was brought to you by a guy who doesn't wear skinny jeans. Or jeans of any kind for that matter.

To all you ignorant HK people, wake up.

You can never imagine such a thing could happen to you. You think it only happens in the movies. You see it in the news and you go, oh my God, then you change the channel to something less sad. But when it happens to you, paralysis sets in quick, your heart stops and your mouth is wide open in disbelief. You just can't believe what you are seeing on the television screen. The feeling spectrum runs its gamut in you; fear, sadness, anger, vengeance. You pray and pray that things will get better. Then the rescue mission commences and you freeze in your tracks. Oh God, please save them, please.

The dust settles. Smoke is everywhere. Glass shards can be seen. When the smoke clears, you see a body lying on the ground. Lifeless. Police race towards the scene, frantic and hopeful. They quickly survey the scene, making sure that it is safe to board the vehicle. People can be seen standing up, then impatiently pushing each other to get off. Nations breathe a sigh of relief, the nightmare is over. Tears of joy run freely down reddened cheeks.

But not for you. You've just lost your loved one. Forever.

The recent tragic events of last week which occured in the Philippines has triggered an avalanche of critiques and whatnot, from the way the police handled the whole situation to how Jackie Chan is now a leper in his own country.

Yes, the Filipino police were inept. They made a lot of mistakes. This could have been prevented if only things were done properly. But this is hindsight talking and it is extremely easy to sit behind a computer typing out things like, "They should have done this. Wait, they should have done that." But to vilify and denigrate an entire nation is beyond absurd. It is embarrassing and morally wrong.

Before any of you start to conjure up ways up of disemboweling my already bloated stomach, hear this: I can't fathom what the family of the victims went through. I can only imagine and even then I would have barely skimmed the surface of your grief. However, wanting to cause harm upon innocent Filipinos for this tragedy will not bring back the dead. You are besmirching their legacy by pointing your accusatory finger when you should honour their deaths by cherishing the times they were alive.This could have happened to any a nation's people. It just so happened to be a bus full of Hong Kong tourists who came to the Philippines to have a great time yet found disaster. Do you, HK person, would give a shit if it happened to a, say, Japanese?

My sincerest condolences go out to the families who lost their kin. May they rest in peace.

This is Chris, signing off. 

P.S. I support you Jackie Chan even if your movies have been crappy lately. 

When you pick up a can of tuna, spare a thought to the British girl who cleaned it.

Grocery shopping is an art.

And like art, sometimes it looks like a beautiful sunset on a beautiful mountain with a beautiful significant other. Or it could look like Sarah Jessica Parker. Some people take ages thinking and slow picking the stuff they need yet end up with nothing at all. There are some who go in, know which shelves hold their fave items, take what's needed, pay and head home. Others pore over every nutritional fact of a product (that would be me) but will take the cheaper yet nutritionally suspicious alternative because it is, well, cheaper. But how many of you actually care about the product you choose to purchase, for yourself, to feed your family? Care in the sense of where it came from, how it was produced, how did it get to the supermarket. Do you take the time to research on the things you need from there?

Most of you couldn't care less even if you cared at all. And I'm just as culpable.

There's a show called Blood, Sweat and Takeaways that was shown on the Asian Food Channel not too long ago. It followed the lives of six British young 'uns who traded their comfy cushions for damp cold floor. The whole premise was simple, take six Brits with diverse backgrounds, dump them in the unsavoury areas of South-East Asia, make them go through what the locals go through just to survive and hopefully when they get back they'll be able to tell the difference between an Indonesian and a Thai. Never seen dead fish before? Here's one, go and gut it. In 5 seconds. How about decapitating prawns (shrimps for you Yanks out there)? Decapitate 100 of the little blighters in 5 minutes, don't talk while you're at it. All for a daily pay that is enough for no one let alone a family of 6.

The six have different personalities since having all six with the same characteristics would just be ennui. There's farmer boy who dives into any work with nary a complaint. Killing a chicken was as easy as lifting mud cakes weighing 20kgs. Did you say brunette? Yes, there's one. I don't remember what she does. There's the token Asian who's forgotten his roots and loves fried chicken. The necessary blonde in the show is atypical of her upbringing; that of a snooty princess who eats more processed food than my family does in a year. What's a show without a kind-hearted portly fellow who complains about complaints yet does his darndest best. Lastly, the participant that wants to change the world whilst wearing a thin blouse. Of course, there'll be one that feels the need to change the world and she'll do it. Believe me, she will and she'll make you believe in wanting to do better for the people who put rice on your plate.

Their mission was to live with the locals, do the work they do, get paid at the end of the day and ruminate on what transpired. Conditions were appalling, destitute and saddening. You really feel for the locals, not the participants, because they'll get to back whereas the locals would have to carry on. Did I feel pity for the Brits? Nope. Why should I? Did I feel bad for them? Yes. Even I wouldn't want to do what they did. What this show has also highlighted is the sheer horrid conditions the people from this part of the world are in. No proper sanitation, abominable work conditions and the lack of birth control. 

The show also highlighted the plight of prostitutes in Thailand. Since the show wasn't called Blood, Sweat, Takeaways and HIV, it was a short segment yet profound in its message. Though, I'm not sure it the Brits back in the motherland would care. After all, it is them and their continental cousins who keep the flesh trade alive.

In the end, the six Brits came back with a new-found perspective on life. They all are actively campaigning to their mates that, hey, did you know that South-East Asia is not just Singapore? Guess what, all our fast food and packaged stuff are from there! I commend them for wanting to help change the mindset of their fellows.

Unfortunately, the show didn't convert me to be another crusader. But that doesn't mean I'll piss on some poor person's luck whose job was to help me have my fried cod. That's how life is. If someone was born with a silver spoon in their mouth you'll think of them as spoilt and undeserving. If someone came from some afar village and has a small room to call home you will pity them till the cows come home (not likely since the cows would have been slaughtered for burgers). Life's not fair. People at the bottom of the food chain are an important part of everyone's life. I sound harsh, right? Holier than thou complex going on as well, yes? Well, that's how it is, bub. Again, life is not fair. Somebody has to get things done.

Just count your blessings that it isn't you.  

This is Chris, signing off. 

P.S. I would have made an awful participant. I'm sure of it.

A welcome break.

It must be said that when you wear a favourite shirt your arms shouldn't feel like they're being constricted by a python. If that happens it means only one thing: your arms are big (duh!). It could be you're of the corpulent variety or it could be the product of doing heavy dumbbells curls and skull crushers. I'm in the latter category, naturally.

The same also applies to my legs, specifically my thighs. Everyone has a body part that responds well to exercise so well that even doing minimal work to them will yield results. I just need to run a flight of steps and I'm done. Built thighs that rival Beyoncé's in seconds.

Recently, I decided to take a week off from working out. (I was fully conscious of the decision I was making.) The last time I took such a lengthy break was when I injured my shoulder, which, was enforced rather than based on own volition. Prior to the break, I had been lifting pretty heavy weights, sometimes for days in a row. The reasons that necessitated the break were simple: 

• To ensure joint health. Lifting heavy puts an enormous amount of strain on the joints. 
• I was getting *gasp!!!* bored of lifting. 
• Muscle mass was acquired quite significantly so much so that I had trouble fitting into certain clothing items I had no problems few weeks before.
• I wanted to see if I could take the break and last one week of non-activity.

It's good to take a break once in a while. It is needed to recharge the mind, body and soul (some say booty as well).This applies to anything at all, from work to relationships. Sometimes the best thing to do is take a step back, reflect on the good and bad, and see where it will take you. If something unsavoury happened, talk it out (of course, if the parties involved were either in a straight-jacket or were the Hulk incarnate that would certainly cause issues) to find out the truth. Once the dust settles then things can go back the way it was and improve from there.

I feel stronger, mentally and physically, after taking the break. Fitting into your trousers back is a wonderful feeling. And very nice on the bank account.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: The Malaysian Mega Sale is on. Yeah, with the lousiest of discounts seen. Pathetic and hopeless. 

Zee Germans are here!

Ja!

This World Cup is...odd.

Odd in the sense that a lot of people are following it, even those not normally associated with anything football, just for the sheer excitement of it. To say it's been a joyride is a bit of a stretch. At most, it's been all right with the Uruguay versus South Korea being the most exciting for me thus far. The rest have been tepid and apathetic.

Which brings me to what I'm going through right now. Work's been great, busier than ever and me not complaining about wanting to leave after a week. Or the next. Thankfully, I've a holiday coming up in October and the thought of it keeps me sane during trying times in the office. Life needs to be about working to live, never the other way round. Being in Malaysia, well, it ain't impossible but it's surely as hell ain't easy either.

For some strange reason, I feel like eating a really good peanut butter sandwich.

This is Chris, signing off. 

PS: Go Germany!

Half way there. Half way here. Where am I heading?

In two days' time we will be entering the second part of 2010.

Holy shit.

Earlier in the year, I was a like a happy bunny, hopping around with a carrot in my mouth thinking how great life was. I hopped and hopped then stopped. Stopped completely and utterly. Carrot finished. Euphemisms aside, what was supposed to be the gateway to a great career ended up nearly choking me. But you know the rest of the story so I might as well go on to now.

Now is very busy. Nay, now is very bloody busy.

Ever since I joined I've not had an easy day. I've had easy first half days but have yet to experience a full day of ease. Yet I wouldn't change a thing. I'm in charge of things. I'm the goto guy whenever there's a problem (it can be tiring being the goto guy but it feels great). All in all, things are going great.

Till the next time I bitch about my job, naturally.

On the life* side of things, it's been more than great. My woman and I have gone from strength to strength and it's it'll get, urm. strengther. The family has accepted her as one of our own; so much so that me ole grandma kept talking to her in own mother tongue even though R had no clue whatsoever what was being said. 

So what can I expect in the next six months? More work and more fun, that's for sure. But it's the unexpected things that I'm most looking forward to. After all, what's life without a little mystery, the unknown, what you never imagined.

I need to go to toilet.

This is Chris, signing off. 

PS: You didn't expect that, yes? :p

* Life = not staring at damn servers and whatnots.

To bag or not to bag...holy crap, it's RM10000 for a bag!

The sparkly floor was so spot-free I can see the inside of my nostrils. A faint smell of leather and polish emanated from every corner of the store. Oddly enough, an odour more commonly found in a dingy coffeeshops serving mixed rice could be detected as well. I believe vegetables and two sides of meat were involved. A store help sees us as we push the heavy iron doors but doesn't help nor smile as he greeted us, his eyes scanning my stained (first time wearing!) Timberland tee. I cough into the help's direction, mumbling sorryassholeyoulooklikeahedgehog. Them polishing liquids do give off such strong smells. We browse the shelves, inspecting the bags diligently whilst trying to coolly locate the price tag. We baulk at the price but without so much as a surprised look, we shake our heads and say we don't like the colour.

We walk away and into another store, hoping our skittish bourgeois-yet-want-to-be-uppity behaviour won't make us drop a RM5000 bag onto the floor. We did that a couple times already.  

With the proliferation of upscale shopping centres mushrooming across the city so are the high of high-end brands making their presence known. It must be said that business is booming as women are bagging (pardon the pun) one bag after another with nary a blink of an eye. Not surprisingly, the women who are buying the bags are like you and me, not poor enough to be called poor (we always say we're poor but we still end up getting Starbucks or Coffee Bean every other time, hmm...) or rich enough to be called rich. It's funny that these women are so into the brands they can't pronounce them properly: Plada, Bluebelly, Looeeee Vooooton, Herpes, the list goes on.

You can literally see the vulturous look in their eyes, the glint of insanity behind their oversized sunglasses, even saliva dripping down their neck as they eye a tote that holds brilliantly one pack of tissue paper. And that's just the daughters. Their mothers are worse, grilling the store help with one question after another and shouting at their friends whom they've brought along, "Wah, this bag so nice wan la! Got red colour for this ah?"

And I thought having a Crumpler was the zenith of bagdom.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I hear an aunt wants to go to Crotch.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: High-end bags are more of a craze here compared to high-end shoes, so I've noticed. Not sure why but maybe some aunties don't cut their toenails.

Friends fighting with friends ain't nice.

Friend.

The dictionary puts "friend" as: a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard; a person who is on good terms with another; a person who is not hostile. 

I bet a lot of you view a "friend" as someone you can borrow money from. Or get them to cover up for you when you go down to get the newspaper.

It is not a nice feeling to be fighting with someone. The pain intensifies when you are close friends to each other. Fights can make you think, what the hell? am I really friends with that person? Fights will make you think of all the bad things, sometimes blinding your judgement of right and wrong.Then, you realise, what the fuck just happened? You curse yourself, wishing it would have been different. But it happened, too bad, so live with it. Learn from it. In a way, a fight (tiff, arguement, misunderstanding or whatever you want to call it) can lead to better times.

The journey is painful, as it should be, but at the end of it is with hope that an empathic resolution can be achieved. All for the sake of peace and all the good things that happened. When all is said and done friends will be there for you. Just as you are for them. Friendship that's meaningful should never be taken for granted. Cherish it.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Being the only person in the world handling issues is an absolutely scary thought.

What? It's April already?

As I was stuck in yet another traffic snarl, my mind wandered to things. Good things. This weekend will be awesome, chiefly, because my family and I will be celebrating my aunt's birthday, something we've not done in aeons. My next thought veered to the trip I have to another continent in October (massive yeah!) with my woman. Profanities are let loose as a moronic driver suddenly cuts in front of me. I start thinking of all the birthday celebrations, weddings, and whatnot, I'll be able to attend to since I've decided to tone down my parsimonious ways. My sister tells me she'll have busy times as well right to the end of the month. Then, it hit me.

It's already April.

As I recalled the last three months, I must say, it has been rather lacklustre. There have been ups and downs, though, thus far, the downs win. Yet again I am unable to say with a straight face that I am happy with my current position. What began with a whirlwind 250km/h ride is now an insipid 1km/h walk. What the hell happened? I wish I knew. The promises of endless work fizzled and for hours on end I was left to my own devices. To keep my sanity intact, I had to train myself lest I forget what I've learned. They say, no rest for the wicked, but this wicked has been rested for too long.

But enough of the ennui and vagaries of work, let's move on! To where, though? Besides the aforementioned trip in October, I have nothing in the works. There isn't any plan of a plan. Can you believe it? Me, Mr Planner, has nothing up his sleeveless shirt? Well, from now on, it's carpe diem. Ad-hoc Man is here.

What the hell am I rambling about?

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Rooney, come back quick!

Hate makes the world go round.

Don't you just love a clear blue sky? Minus the stifling heat of now, of course. But, what's this? Yet another person, nay, idiot, bumped into me without uttering an apology for doing so. When I turn around, I know why. He's one of those idiots in sneakers, wears a cap the wrong way and is from a race generally known for the laziness and stupidity.

Oops, did I say the wrong thing?

Look, I hate everybody and anyone. So when someone accuses me of being a racist, I'll just pfft right at their cheeks. We all hate each other. If not hate, we distrust. Usually such unbridled ennui is because of someone's colour of their skin. It's a natural feeling. Even the nicest people I know, some of them polite and lovely on the outside, harbour deep resentment towards certain quarters.

And these are just the guys.

Racism in Malaysia is still alive and well, my friend. If a friend says they've been to here and there and have experience something bad our first reaction would be to say, "who was this terrible person?" and whence told, you'll say, "ah, thought so." We have preconceived notions about certain races that when we are regaled tales of good deeds we'd be aghast that it isn't what we've known.

It is not confined to just to other races, it even happens within one's own race. I should know; if it was a crime, I'm guilty. And I'm not ashamed to admit it. It just is. It's not like I sit down I come up with derogatory terms and jot it down on my Post-it note on my fridge.

Oh, the horror stories of what this race is and isn't have been told from generation to generation but does anybody try to tackle the "issue"? For starters, it isn't an issue, it just is. It's a fact of life. We whine and bitch about it till the cows have gone to another kampung but nothing happens. Because people don't really give a damn even though they're more than willing to share a whole sundry list of gripes. So why do we even bother?

Whining and bitching brings catharsis, that's why.

I've been on the receiving end of some pretty nasty racist comments. I doubt it won't happen again. Life goes on. Being a racist isn't a choice, it's already chosen you.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Alice in Wonderland was so-so. Bring on Clash of the Titans!

At least I don't have to wear that funky suit.

The steps taken are small, light and nary a sound. Heat? Unbearable. Imagine seeing your skin peeled, no, flayed before your eyes. Ironic that it's burn-proof material. My breaths are short and reek that is my own mouth is starting to nauseate me. But I cannot not be 100% focused. I just can't. I reach for the garbage strewn all over the ground and push them away. Colourful wires connected to a device that could blow me and the neighbourhood  to smithereens sat there ominously as though I was dared to cut them one by one.

I do.

Sweat is running down my face, the salty taste a reminder that I need a drink later. My earpiece crackles, I hear a command issued to me to get my ass back right this instant. As I'm walking back to the Humvee, I see hands waving at me. The visor limits my visibility considerably and so I walk faster. Another crackle and command yells at me, telling me that there's a suspicious-looking guy with what looks to be a remote detonator and that they can't get a good shot as the guy is running too fast. My heart is pounding so fast I think I might explode. I run as fast as I can in this godforsaken suit. 100 yards later and a mushroom cloud erupts behind me, throwing my body like a rag doll. While the blast echoes in my ears, deafening me and my cry, darkness takes over and the last thing I see is the scorching sun and smoke...

That's how I would imagine being a bomb expert. While I reckon The Hurt Locker and my current position are miles apart, I can relate to its stress, without the threat of loss of life, naturally. One tiny mistake, a miscalculation, even pressing the button that may or not determine the next second of your life, all that I can relate to. Sure, the drama and the high-tension are nowhere the level of such, however, the events of the past few weeks could be summed up with the above description. 

An explosion of the senses and mind.

This is not the first time I have kicked a fuss about my job but the past few weeks have been rough, to put it softly (do you see the pun?). If I had an out-of-body experience I'd try to kick my corporeal ass myself. Is this the path that will lead to greatness? I surely hope so, otherwise a 30-year-old me is going to be sorely disappointed (but, hopefully, wealthy). It also doesn't help that the old workplace also misses me. It was such a beautiful time. I truly miss it.

Just like how you will never forget your first love; you will never forget where your career took off*.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: The Hurt Locker was all right. Yes, just all right.

* - Only, that the first real job I had happens to be the best place where one can be. If you're planning to loaf about immeasurably, watch countless Youtube videos and having the best lunches ever then the old workplace is the place for you.